


tell me something beautiful

by princess_of_rebels



Series: dual suns & lone moons [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Angst, F/F, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Meet-Cute, Mental Health Issues, Underwater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26355373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_of_rebels/pseuds/princess_of_rebels
Summary: She thinks the stories that caution about sirens and the sea have been born from people very much afraid of falling in love with pretty and kind women, from people who have no eye for beauty and no ear for kindness – Indah is not one of them.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: dual suns & lone moons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915147
Kudos: 6





	tell me something beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact(s): the original project is set in a industrial fantasy world, but when i was getting into dnd (by trying to re-create my characters), i thought, "what if i had made them real freaky fantasy creatures instead of basically variant humans? that would have been so cool"

_i wanna see you wake up  
shake free of all these hang-ups  
your heart is filling with glory  
lifting your mind and lifting your worries_

**ice cold.; half alive feat. kimbra**

The crashing of the waves has grown louder and louder, swollen to a constant presence that drowns out every other noise; the pull of the sea is just beyond her field of vision, tempting her to stop and look at what has been forbidden, at what is dangerous territory, instead of following the bloodied and hurried tracks through the forest. But duty takes priority, so she tears her gaze from the horizon looming past the tree line.

Salt itches in her nose and lungs.

The deer must not be far now. A group of children had been out in the early morning, practicing, with one of the huntresses, and one of them had wounded the animal – it had darted off in a panic then, evading all attempts to find it down but her own.

She must put it to rest. It is the least she can do.

Its path gets muddies with others, hard to tell apart even for her, so she climbs the tallest tree, bare feet and hands against rough bark as she pulls herself up the branches and through the crown of lush leaves. Her muscles strain, legs sore from walking and crouching for hours. A gust of wind knocks the air out of her lungs, turning her breathless for a moment. Her eyes scan her surroundings, on the lookout for movement and the stark color of blood.

Indah finds it, on the golden beach – too drained to fight yet far from dead, at this rate, its demise will be pure agony.

Gradually, she climbs from her spot closer to the sky than earth and draws a knife from her belt as she approaches the deer, sturdy ground replaced by the sinking, grinding hot sand.

Sides flare, eyes widen; it wants to get up and run but only helplessly scrambles.

“Easy,” she whispers. “Please. There is no need to fight me.” The animal eases, a magnificent creature with antlers branching from his head and soft eyes. Its pale coat has been muddied with dried blood, an arrow still sticking out of its body.

“I have come to relief you,” she says and kneels next to it in the sand, smoothing a hand over its neck. “I pray to my goddess that you may have a kinder fate in your other life. I ask for your forgiveness; take comfort in knowing that it is not senseless.” The head rolls to the side, the eyes close. Indah has always figured that they understood her; the others have shrugged their shoulders and said they do not think the same. It seems fitting, and cruel, that she should know their paint better than everyone else.

The bones in her right hand ache, a memory of past events, and she switches the blade to her left. In a swift motion, she cuts the deer’s throat, watching its life flee away.

“May Buwa guide you know,” she mutters, staring at the two suns which stand high, clinging together.

She puts away her knife and sits there, breathing, allowing herself to rest. Unintentionally, she clenches her right hand and thinks about the little girl crying her eyes out because the deer suffered. Indah told her not to sadden herself so much, it happens to the best of them, she will make it right. (But, in the end, she is glad, because little girls can become huntresses, if they desire so, and no one breaks their hands, despite them begging and screaming and pleading because it is not considered an activity for a girl.)

Her bones hurt. She has stopped counting the times she has re-broken them, time and again, to make them right but they have never truly been, so she learned to fire arrows with her left hand instead and ran away.

The pull of the ocean hits her square in the chest. So close, so wild and free. Just once she wants to stand in it, bathe in it, let the water lick up to her feet and ankles, maybe all the way up to her knees – but no further, no matter how much she wishes for the waves to take her away, perhaps to a country where no one knows of her, where she can be anyone and no one in particular.

But, as she cannot swim, she does not dare to get close; it is like a beast, unpredictable, a force of nature, and Indah knows best not to stand against such forces. And yet, while she keeps looking at the lapping waters and white foam, bluer than the sky has ever been, it takes all of her composure not to just walk into it and let it take her, let it carry her wherever it deems right. Maybe all to way to the frigid north, where it is all snow and ice, or to the east with its grand deserts and mountain ranges, or maybe to where the flying islands hover in the air, or maybe to the city where the Matriarch resides, a just woman who deeply cares about her country, or maybe down beneath the waves, to the sunken cities with their priestesses and endless debates. Anywhere but here, where all that keeps her from running into her family is chance and her bow.

She loves the forests, surely, and she would not trade them for the world, but constantly being so close to the place she grew up, to the place she hates, puts her on edge. Nightmares plague her. When has been the last time one has not been sitting on her chest when she tries to sleep, all claws and teeth? It must have been a long time.

Absently, she buries a hand in the sand, fine grains slipping through her fingers, away from her grasp. So warm. Unlike the cool and muddy, steady earth.

It does not matter; she needs to get back – she might be back before nightfall, if she makes the walk now.

But … she does not move. She sits there, still, on the beach, the dead body of a deer in front of her, blood staining the sand and her fingers, and she does not move.

The wind has changed, it is in the sound of the rustling leaves and the crash of the waters, the birds have fallen silent, the seafoam is brighter, such a beautiful wild thing.

Something is about to happen.

Indah gets up, breath hitching in her throat. She climbs past a small collection of rocks, on which the waves crash more viciously. For a painfully long moment, she stares down at the sea, all shades of blue, a color somewhere between grass and violets and yet neither.

One wave parts and the foam rises to form what could be a human as it pushes up against the cliff. There are arms and discolored, blue-ish skin, surrounded by what she can only call an aura, wobbling in place. Pink sprouts from the head like antlers, except there are nothing like that, and light blossoms from the chest and hands.

The creature sits, from the waist down shimmering scales, which shift and turn into a pair of legs – very, very pretty legs, scars cluttering along the calves and thighs. The color of the skin becomes something more human-like, tanned, more yellow than her own.

Her gaze travels up and she only realizes when heat burns through her throat and cheeks, that there is a woman perched on the rocks, naked. A very pretty woman.

Soft fabric falls over her body. Indah does not recognize the clothing but notes it as practical, if not quite suited for the forest. A pale pink scarf is wrapped around her head and hair, loosely tossed over her shoulder, only a single string of shirt hair the same color as the ocean from which she came escaping it.

“Hello!” the woman calls and smiles and waves and Indah freezes up, unable to move, to think. Like a deer when you suddenly come eye to eye with it. Just that, now, she is the deer. And terribly embarrassed; she much she feels like letting the ground swallow her might be a kinder face than facing the stranger.

Her throat and face burn like fire; her first instinct is to climb back down, hide, and pretend she has never seen anything, has never seen her, and act like it is a distant dream she will wake up from in the morning, having half-forgotten about it. But, alas, she cannot move, damned to watch as the woman makes her way to up her.

In the back of her mind, she is distantly aware that her knowledge of the common tongue is already exhausted – she only knows a handful of words to begin with and cannot properly speak them either. Normally, it doesn’t matter, because there are few, if any, visitors to come around, and yet-

She stops in front of her and Indah feels the need to step back.

Up close, she is beautiful. Indah’s hear stutters in her chest, then beats rapidly.

She says something, voice like a song, the melody carried far by the wind from the water; it sounds like the common tongue, but she can only stare at her, wide-eyed, embarrassed, rooted to the spot like a tree. Goddess, she would rather be a tree.

Confusion flickers over the woman’s face before it softens and she slowly raises her hands – open palms, not a threat, not holding a weapon.

Indah shakes her head, that is not the point, how does she tell her? Does she even speak her language?

She looks at her, dark brows furrowed.

Her heart is in her throat, she cannot tell why. (She has a good idea, though, as she tends to bury questions she has no answer to, the main one being that her heart is always in her throat when she talks to women, especially the pretty ones who are not in a relationship. It is strangely funny, to think that violence does not intimidate her but beauty does. Then again, she knows herself to be capable of violence, if necessary, the other … not so much.)

“I’m sorry,” the woman says then, and Indah does not know what startles her more: to hear her language from her mouth or her voice, like waves lazily lapping upon the beach, or the sound of the words, so familiar and so foreign at the same time. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She opens her mouth to reply. Her teeth clack when she shuts it again. What is there to say? At loss for words, for thoughts, for anything; she feels weirdly undeserving, weirdly detached. Blood still sticks to her fingers. The deer’s corpse is behind her.

“I am not scared,” she says eventually, the words trembling on her tongue much more than usual. They are in sync with her jagged heartbeat.

The woman smiles at her, a genuine, bright smile; warmth engulfs her, undetermined happiness floods her. It has been a while since someone has smiled at her like that. And it probably means nothing, of course, but she cannot help feeling that it does.

“What is your name?” she asks and extends her hand; palm up, open, covered in bandages. She knows the pattern in which they are wrapped: to prevent injuries when fighting.

“Indah,” she answers and shakes it with her ruined hand.

“Keiko,” she replies and holds onto her hand for a moment longer, something lingering between them that is much heavier than the silence alone, broken by the waves and the resumed singing of the birds, their endless chattering, and the rustling of the leaves.

Indah knows that she is not just anyone; she has heard the stories of people living under the sea, stranger than anyone could imagine, and she believes them to be true, but she is convinced that Keiko is even more than that, even more than an old tale – she can feel it rattling in her bones, a power to shake the earth and tear it open, the power to split the world in two and make nature do her bidding, she can feel it settle behind her ribs, feel it in every thrum of her heart, behind her temples, so very much alive, speaking without words.

But that is not Keiko’s power, not the beckoning of the oceans, the songs carrying far away, sea storms and raging floods, it feels … similar to that. But not the same. And it scares her, knowing that the hum of raw energy is not her imagination, because the old women could be right, because she just wants to be ordinary, for once.

“Are you alright?”

Indah nods, a strange taste filling her mouth. Like blood. But it does not taste like blood. Silently, she withdraws her hand. It hangs uselessly at her side. Her head is swimming, someone is trying to tell her something important but they do not speak the same language, so it is all lost on her, except for the building dread in the pit of her stomach.

“You’re not,” she says softly, hands folded in front of her body in a way that still lets her see her open palms. It makes her wonder – who is she? And why is she here? Does she feel it, too?

Indah does not want to ask. The thought of voicing something so intimate, something she has never told anyone else about, scares her, because, what if there is nothing to it? She cannot stand the idea, so she keeps her mouth shut, trying to think of something else, except that her head stays so very empty.

She swallows and breathes. What is she supposed to do?

A part of her wants to simply turn around and forget, since that is the easy solution; she is good at forgetting or at least at pretending that she forgets, even though the memories keep resurfacing and bore right into her mind, eating and gnawing at her, urging her to do – something. She ought to be doing _something_ but she has forgotten; it reminds her of a legend she heard a long time ago, yet whenever she tries to recall it, it slips her grasp.

Indah lets go of a breath she has not known she has held. It shudders. She looks at Keiko again. There are a million question she does not ask; her mouth remains shut and the words collect in her throat, choking her. Truth is, she has never been good at speaking, no matter the circumstances.

Keiko studies her. It is only now, staring at each other, that she notes that her left eye is a deep shade of blue, not near black like the right, both colors she has never seen before – she looks perfectly human and yet she is not and it stirs something inside of her she cannot name.

“What are you?” she asks then, cutting into the silence like an earth slide. Fear sparks in her chest, she knows no better than to ask difficult questions.

The woman bristles, briefly, looking caught between one decision and another, before her shoulders sink. So calm. Her face shows a small smile. The sadness in her eyes makes her guilty.

“A woman, a priestess, a citizen of the sunken continent-” She pauses. The smile fades. “But you don’t mean that.”

Indah shakes her head, silently; no, she does not, but she wishes she had never mentioned it. It paralyzes her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes like she has been stung – so close to a name for the soundless voice in the back of her head, so close to an answer, too close. (She remembers tales of the Worldeater and Abyssopener, of the Soulcatcher and Dawnwalker, she remembers cruel tales and kind stories alike; she remembers legends about gods being stuck in an endless cycle of rebirth and death and that seems too cruel a fate to want it.)

“Let’s walk for a while,” Keiko says with an understanding and pitiful expression, nudging her arm – so very gentle, her touch lighter than a feather.

Indah flinches. Cannot help it. The blood on her hand has dried, she is so terribly unworthy, has been her entire life. Never able to live up to anything at all.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says and shows her her open palms again, as if it is a peace offering; Indah feels like she is the one who ought to apologize but can only shake her head.

The next time she reaches for her wrist, she lets her, watches as water collects in the palm of the priestess’ hand and drips onto her own, washing away the blood. She is in awe; her magic feels gentle and cool, calming. Like the soft drum of rain upon the leaves.

She withdraws her hands and closes them in front of her body, holding herself with grace but not minimizing her strength – she holds herself like the sea does, wild and free, gracious and strong, confident. The latter has always been a trait she has admired because she does not have it; she is over it, for the most part, but there are words that stung too deep to forget.

They walk then, climbing down the cliff with ease. The ground is steady beneath her feet. It always has been. It always will be.

She sinks into the hot sand, it grinds and burns, as she lifts the deer’s body unto her shoulders. The sun will set soon. They will not starve without her, though, and _this_ takes priority.

Keiko stands next to her, eyeing the corpse suspiciously, ultimately keeping silent as she walks with her towards the forest instead.

Silently, Indah breathes a sigh of relief when the muddy earth clings to her feet again, as they enter between the branches and skies of leaves filtering the few remaining beams of sunlight. Birds chirp, flowers wrap around trees, blossoms spring, animals surround them, entirely unbothered. It is paradise. What does paradise look like to someone from under the sea?

There is a long silence between them, long enough that she nearly forgets that she is there, next to her, if it were not for her footsteps. Silent. Aware. Not quite a hunter.

“What legends to they tell here?” she asks then, dark eyes settling on her, and all Indah can think about is how much she would like to reach for the blue string of hair.

“Legends?” she asks and laughs bitterly. “They believe it’s all true.”

There is a strange look in her eyes and she reminds herself that she is talking to a priestess, so she probably believes it all, too – Indah is just so sick and tired of it, she wants to have a normal life. Hers has been rough. There is no space for gods and deities.

“Please,” she says gently and inclines her head.

She feels horrible for laughing, conjures up words of apology, but they keep getting stuck, they feel unfinished, untrue, they feel like the first broken parts a child speaks and she has never moved on – they do not feel like they are enough.

“I did not mean to be … mean,” she says. They chide her for not reading or writing, they chide her for her poor choice of words, they forget that she has never probably learned either, she tries and fails, letters jumping and twisting before her eyes, quill unsteady in her left hand, it is a vicious cycle. She is in too deep to get out.

“Don’t worry,” Keiko says with half a smile and motions her to continue.

The words collect in her throat again, all so utterly useless, because they do not say anything. They probably do, on their own, but together … they do not make sense.

Where does she start?

Eventually, while they pass by one of the oldest trees that stands tall and proud and unwavering, the ground steady, moss brushing up against her feet, she finds her voice again.

“They believe Majka’s six children never died,” she says with a bitter taste in her mouth, “that they still roam the world, again and again, until their mother can be awakened. They believe that they return as people.” She pauses and swallows and nearly chokes herself. “They speak of the one who split all continents, the one who buried the world, the one who grew this very forest. They talk about them like they are anything but people.”

Keiko nods. “My kind believe something similar,” she says. “They never truly died and became reincarnated, so we pray for their guidance and success.”

A chill runs down her spine. She stops, rooted to the ground. She has distantly been aware that these tales are not unique, and yet, hearing it from someone else’s mouth is strange. Or perhaps it is the feeling in the back of her mind that irks her, the feeling that she is close to … something.

Keiko halts, too, a few steps ahead and turns around to look at her, expression softening – as if she knows more. The dawning realization claws up her body, puncturing her skin and making her bleed.

But they do not speak about it, not now, the forest speaks for them, the steady ground beneath their feet and the blooming nature and the lull of the seas, and they walk again.

“What is it like?” Indah asks then, having spoken the question before she is aware that she has thought it. “Under the sea, I mean.”

The woman hums in response and tilts her head, the soft fabric of her scarf shifts. Its color reminds her of the sky on a peculiarly gentle morning. “I don’t know where to start,” she says, “ages ago, our place was built from a material no one alive can replicate. It lets you look out into the depths at any given moment, watch the fish and corals, watch the tidings.” She pauses, setting a bare foot against a root and pauses on top of it. “Some say that Desju created it herself for humans so they could see the beauty eternally.”

“Is it beautiful?” Indah asks, having stopped to look at her.

“Yes,” she breathes and smiles. “Very much. And drifting with the waves, to where creatures dwell no one has spoken for ages, listening to them and their century-old memory – I would not trade the world for it.” A smile tugs at her lips; Keiko loves it perhaps to the same degree that she loves the lush forests.

Silence returns as the night slowly falls over them. The dyed beams of sunlight reach them, only barely, as their surroundings grow quiet and the sleeping wake; exhaustion settles into her bones. Hunger digs into her stomach.

The camp is not far now, but the last thing on her mind is to rest; she can only think about Keiko and the strange feeling like she has forgotten something important (and her eyes and the short strings of blue hair and the way she speaks and how her hands felt against her own and the sea).

She pauses when she sees the fires in the distance, words stuck in her throat; how does she say it? What is the expression for it? She fumbles and panics, because it is taking too long, because she should say something, because Keiko is waiting for her to say something, but she can’t, how can she speak a word she does not know?

“Breathe,” the woman reminds her, gently touching her elbow, and Indah lets out a shuddering breath. Her fingers curl lightly around her arm. “What is it?” Her voice is smooth and calming, skin cold to the touch.

“Maybe you should wait here,” she says, unable to look at her (dark warm eyes, that single string peeking out from under her scarf, the curve of her lips, the furrow of her brows), “it’s – I don’t know how they would react to … an outsider.”

Keiko frowns. “Alright,” she mutters, to herself, shaking her head, and Indah can just _not_ look at her any longer and turns towards her, just in time for a smile that makes her chest all warm. “I’ll wait here.”

She nods, feeling her heartbeat stutter in her chest, before she moves, every step suddenly straining – the fires grow larger and flicker, the ground keeps steady under her feet, and yet she feels a light wobble in her knees.

She sneaks around, avoiding the light as if she were a creature of the night, and places the deer where the other hunters are gathered to prepare the food; they tell her to say but she simply utters something about having something to do and disappears, tracing back her path to where Keiko stands, so foreign in her forest and yet so very beautiful. Not in ethereal god-like way. In the mortal human way like any woman can be.

Once more, she smiles, and her thoughts stumble.

“Lets us walk for a while,” she says, “do you know a good place to talk?”

Indah nods, speechless, words having fled from her, and starts walking. They duck under low hanging branches and foliage, and she watches the woman next to her look at it all with a curious fascination that makes her _proud_ , for some unknown reasons, as if she raised this forest herself. But she has not. Has she? Sometimes it feels like she has.

She leads her up a small hill, then another, then past a line of trees, until they stop in front of the oldest – it reaches up so far into the sky, her stomach turns just from thinking about it. In all the years she has visited it, she has never dared to climb up to its highest point, fearing that she might never make it back down.

She hooks a hand around the lowest branch and pushes her feet against the trunk, pulling herself up. Keiko looks at her from beneath, a seize forming between her brows, and Indah smiles when she extends a hand towards her.

They climb that way for several minutes, half-way up the tree, to where it must have been split by lightning once, opening into a cozy arch that she has used to escape the world for a time. She settles against a thick branch that curves upwards, as if trying to keep its original form.

Keiko sits down next to her, cross-legged, spine straight as she surveys her surroundings, silent for a long time, before she seems to ease, leaning back. The wind picks at her scarf and clothes.

A fox screams.

The woman flinches.

“It’s just a fox,” Indah says.

“They are … supposed to sound like that?” she asks, and she only remembers then that they do sound like a woman yelling.

She shrugs her shoulders. “It is the noise they make,” she replies. “I do not know more.”

She nods, and they fall silent again – it is a good opportunity to ask, certainly, but where does she start? Where is she supposed to start, with all the questions, a thousand of them, a million, too many to ask them all? Most of them are not even tangible, not more than fleeting impressions of something that should or should not be. Language is a difficult thing to master and she is so very far from it.

“So, you are a priestess,” she says eventually and Keiko hums in response. “Why?” From her mouth, it sounds more accusing than she means to be, because there is nothing wrong about being a priestess, but she cannot help the bitter feeling, with the old women insisting that their goddess will come save them, so desperately looking for signs that they make _her_ out to be their savior, when she wants nothing to do with it. (She is scared of being something greater, of having responsibility; is it not enough to watch out for these lands and animals?)

The woman briefly studies her, expression shifting into something serious. “There is a small collection of islands in the south,” she says, “a lonely archipelago, where few of my people live – those deemed unworthy of the place under the sea.” Her voice grows bitter. “It is a lapse in judgement to assume that some people are less worthy than others.” A pause. “I was born there. And my uncle told them about all the opportunities I could have, down there, so they eventually send me to live with him. And he told me, too – all the education, all the chances. He did not say he planned to marry me to an official’s son to secure his seat in government.” Disgust rakes across her face.

Anger coils in her stomach, white-hot-blinding. “I’m sorry,” she says and the bones in her right hand ache. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Keiko softly puts a hand on her shoulder. “Please, listen,” she says, sympathy in her gaze – does she sense it, the anger? The feeling? The pain from so long ago? “I was furious when I found out. We fought. I ran away.” She squeezes her shoulder. “The temple is run by the priestesses of Desju, women who are greatly respected and looked up to. They are untouchable by law. I had nowhere else to go.” She swallows. “They took me in. That did not necessarily stop my uncle.” She looks so sad, Indah curls her own hand over the one on her shoulder.

Keiko smiles. Her eyes are still deep and dark and sad. “And I was just so angry and upset, I felt used and lied to – the water rose with my anger. Magic. I had a rare talent. My uncle left me alone and I stayed.” Fondly, she looks at her. “It was a simple decision, then. The priestesses taught me so much – languages and history, debate and rhetoric, diplomacy and kindness. How to fight and how to care, how to avoid violence whenever necessary. How to analyze the past and learn from its mistakes. How to discuss with the government and not let it fall apart. I learned to paint and sing and dance out of my own volition, I schooled my magic and learned to swim. I learned to use ink and needles. They became my family.”

“That … does sound lovely,” she says.

“What are priestesses like here?” Keiko asks then, hands cupping her own.

“Different,” Indah replies and wonders if she should continue at all. “They are … caught in the past, heads full of an ideal from centuries ago. They cling to the old stories and myths, hoping for someone to save them.” She does not quite mean to sound bitter. “They think I’m their savior.”

“And you don’t want to be,” Keiko concludes softly.

“Yes.” The word tumbles from her mouth before she is even aware of its existence, its weight. “I just … don’t want to be special. For once.”

Keiko intervenes their fingers, and she is too upset to care, too upset to pay any attention to it, even though she figures she should – but she cannot and the thoughts overwhelm her, too loud and deafening, cluttering her mind.

“I’m afraid that it is not so easy,” she says gently, fingers drawing circles on her skin, “to cut ourselves loose from what we are given.”

The breath trembles in her chest; she knows, even though she has no words for it, she knows that the ground always keeps steady under her feet and that the animals understand her, she knows that the land beckons for her, she knows that it is her who keeps them safe. She knows that this is – not quite her, a part of her that is not truly _her_.

“But you don’t have to be whoever they want you to be,” Keiko says softly, eyes the color of raging floods. “You can be you. Just you.”

“I-” She does not know what to say; she is aware, yes, she is aware that she can be whoever she wants to be, but she has never truly been anyone; she has tried to fit in, she has tried not to fit in, she has tried to listen to her thoughts and she has tried silencing them until the voice in the back of her head became mute. None of it has changed anything, she is still stuck, someone she is not, not quite right.

“I don’t know who I am.” It is true, she has known all along, she does not know who she is, she is lost, roaming around a stretch of land over and over again until her days run out.

“It _is_ a difficult thing to figure out,” Keiko tells her, gently cupping her face – but all she can think about is how she wants to shy away because she feels undeserving of it. Because she feels undeserving of _everything_. (Where does it come from; a little girl made to feel lesser than anyone else since they should only be seen. Old anger seethes into her bloodstream like adrenaline.)

She breathes, forcing it through her throat. Because she needs to keep breathing, even when everything overwhelms her and everything is too much at once. Draw in the air through her nose, even when it stings, and keep it in her chest for a moment, before she pushes it back out. Again. And again.

Keiko’s hands stay on her face, warm, fingers pressed against her temples, palms fitted against her cheeks, and she nods to herself every time she manages to breathe. It is … nice. Nice in a way that means something much grander than that but words have never been kind to her, never anything she can master.

“It is-” Indah stops herself. It is an intimate matter, something she has ignored until she has forgotten the words that make it up, drowned it until its body stopped returning to the surface, so why does she keep spilling her aches to a woman she barely knows? It has little to do with the stories they tell about the sea, ever so predatory as a starved wolf, luring everyone to their doom and dragging them beneath the surface. There is no sweet song, no voice promising her to something, nothing with too many teeth and limbs lying in wait.

“Difficult,” she continues eventually, dumb-founded.

“It is,” Keiko agrees, fingertips settling against the base of her skull, covered with the buzz of brown hair and so many cuts; she has cut herself from who her father wanted her to be but whenever she catches a glimpse of her own reflection, she cannot help feeling _ugly_. “Getting a sense of identity – a sense of _you_ – is hard for anyone to figure out.”

Indah nods. “It feels like … everything here is just – locking me in place,” she says. “Keeping me here. Like roots twisting around my feet to stop me from running.”

“Have you … tried to leave?” she asks and her mouth twists. “No. If it were that easy, you would have left already.”

Mutely, she nods. They all depend on her. She cannot just _leave_ , but she is a caged bird without a voice, never quite managing to stand on her own. Because she has silenced all that troubles her, going so far as forgetting the words for it, going so far as shutting out the voice that used to be in the back of her head, right there, between Keiko’s fingertips, untouched, unmoved, _waiting_.

The longer she looks at her, the more miserable she feels, for no other reason than looking at a bird soaring the skies to wherever it wants to go.

She is only aware of the tears when they pour down her face, hot and wet, like a broken dam, and Keiko tugs her head into the crook of her neck, hands securely wrapped around her. Indah lets her; she lets herself – cry and sob and shake like a withered leaf, hands helplessly curling against the bark.

“We’ll find a way,” Keiko promises her, holding her close. Steady. A presence, a constant, much like the sea and its salt in the air, the waves crashing against the shore and rocks, _she is right here_ , and that is more comfort than she has hoped for. “Somehow.” Smoothing, calming, gentle waves beckoning her to dip her toes into them and let them carry her away.

“Why do you help me?” she asks and regrets that she does.

Gently, she tilts her head up, so she has to look at her. “I’ve struggled with who I am, too,” she says, “and, over the years, I’ve grown increasingly grateful to those who have helped me. I want to do the same.”

“We do not even know each other,” she says, wishing she would keep her mouth shut.

“No,” she agrees. “But that doesn’t matter. I stand by my word.”

Indah chokes on hers, speechless in face of that kindness, and continues crying until she can no more.

Clarity sinks in, eventually, as the night cools further; time has become a fickle thing to grasp. What will the sky look like now, if she were to raise her head? But it is easier not to look, so she does not, for a long moment that seems a little like a carefully crafted eternity.

And – she feels at ease. Like she has not for a very long time. It is as if someone has lifted an invisible weight from her shoulders, it is as if someone has undone all her chains.

“Have you ever wanted to see what it is like underwater?” Keiko asks and Indah blinks at her in confusion, unsure how to response. All that she has heard have been nightmare tales to scare them all away from the sea, most of it foreign and unexplored, even by those who live in it – a terrifying thing to exist, indeed. Then again, to her, the whole world is all the same, everything outside of her forest foreign and unexplored.

“I cannot swim,” she says; another stupid answer, she realizes, and bites her tongue.

The woman only smiles. It lights up her eyes so wonderfully, so bright and clear; it is a smile unlike any other, making warmth bloom in her chest like a kind of especially sensitive flower. “I can swim well enough for the both of us,” she replies and takes her hand.

By now, Indah begins to understand that it might be some sort of promise, some sort of … she does not know. Not a habit, not a common gesture.

“Besides,” Keiko says, “the water listens well enough to me.”

She nods and stares into these two differently colored eyes. There is something to them, something she cannot quite place, something that does not quite look _human_ to her, in the same way like the power that thrums through her veins.

The priestess tilts her in in question and frowns; it occurs to her after a moment that she is waiting for an answer.

“I … do not know,” she replies, because she truly does not know; it seems reasonable that not all of it is scary and going to try to eat her, but those stories are still stuck in her head and she cannot shake them. (And she cannot swim either and although she has been tempted to let the ocean carry her, she knows she would simply drown, horrifyingly suffocate as water fills her lungs – the imagine is so vivid she wonders if she has drowned once. But how could she? She is mortal. Is she not? Sometimes, she forgets.) “I think I would like to see it, but … I am scared.”

“I’ll hold your hand the entire time?”

Indah feels the flush spread across her face again; it should not be as convincing an argument as it is and it should not excite her as much as it does, because there is nothing _special_ about it. She is just so starved for affection that she soaks it all up, that she finds herself clinging to it. (Or maybe it is something else, maybe it has to do with that warmth blooming in her chest, with the safe feeling of understanding, or the way she looks at her and smiles, or maybe-)

“Let’s go?” Keiko asks, fingers still tightly clasped around her own, and Indah nods with a shy smile pulling at her lips.

They climb down the tree, night still very much present – the moon stands bright and high, millions of stars flickering so far out of reach and yet so close against all the darkness. Eons ago, it must have been nearly empty once, eventually filling with life as Buwa guides the souls of the dead onto their journey past the bounds of their planet; she has never wondered what it is like, to drift among the star-littered dark, to see other planets. She has never wondered what dying feels like either.

Soon, they stand upon the shore, the dark sea beckoning, just out of reach.

Keiko intervenes their fingers, taking her ruined right hand, and she expects it to ache. It does not.

“Uh,” Indah says, unintelligently, because she still does not know how to swim and the ocean seems terrifying now that she stands so close to it; her heart beats frantically against her ribs, scared of drowning. “Maybe I should … leave my bow.”

“Oh, right,” Keiko says and glances at it, “wood doesn’t do well with water, does it?”

She nods and lets go of her hand, taking it off and placing it, along with the quiver, safely in a cache, hidden under the roots of a tree, before she steps onto the sand again. It is cold now, digging into the soles of her feet.

Keiko links their hands once more, so easily as if it takes no effort at all. To her, it has always been a wall she can never overcome, too great and too tall and too horrifying. The woman simply smiles and pulls her along, stepping into the waves.

The water is cold and soaks through her clothes. It is a strange sensation, grating on her skin but it is not unkind – a slow step and another, until it reaches up to their knees, then their hips, nearly having left the shore behind.

Indah glances back, something inside of her longing for solid ground, the feel of moss and earth. But she does not turn back, does not run; instead, she looks at Keiko and her smile.

“There is no need to be afraid,” she tells her and squeezes her hand, “I’ll look after you.” Oddly calming to hear.

“Thank you.”

They continue, until the ocean reaches up to their chests and could pull them away so easily – it does not, calming lapping against them, but she feels herself loose her balance, feels herself start to struggle.

“I need you to hold your breath for just a moment,” Keiko says, taking her other hand into her own.

“Alright.” She trusts her. Unlike the way she trusts anyone else, similar to how she trusts the ground under her feet to be steady on land.

The woman steps back, once, twice, water reaching her chin, and nods at her. Indah takes a deep breath. Holds it. Keiko pulls her under and the water crashes over their heads, trapping them.

She forces down the urge to lash out and screws her eyes shut, clinging to the woman. Her hands turn cold but her grip is firm; she feels herself get pulled close, something like a breath brushing against her face, magic tingling all around her – soft and gentle and still very much a force of nature.

“Breathe,” the priestess tells her, “open your eyes.”

Hesitantly, she blinks. The dark has lifted to a faint shimmer coming from between them, and she cautiously draws breath. Her lungs fill with air instead of water, even though she is very much surrounded by it.

“It’s a spell that lets you absorb the oxygen without the fluid,” Keiko says excitedly, eyes shining with adorable pride, “it filters out the molecules of water and-”

Indah looks at her. Again. Forgetting what she says. Stares. Where her ears should be sit small fins: they span wide like bat wings. Pink corals curl up her throat and neck and over her head like a decorative piece, over short blue hair that barely reaches past the fins. Her skin is also blue, like the sea on a good day, and black markings – wildlife, plants, fish, religious symbols – wash over her collarbones and shoulders, arms and chest and stomach, all lined with lean muscle, to meet the brilliant scales where her legs used to.

She grows very much aware of her nudity, a flush quickly spreading over her face.

“There is no need to be embarrassed,” the woman says with a soft and genuine laugh and pulls her close, one hand settled on the small of her back, tail curling around her legs, and she feels like it would be a kinder fate for the ground to swallow her. Here, it is so far under her feet, she cannot see it.

Her head burns like fire. “Cultural differences, maybe,” she mutters as she buries her head in the crook of her neck.

“Maybe,” Keiko only says, wrapping her other hand around her and it feels – _nice_. Being hugged. “How are you holding up?”

“Better than I thought,” she admits, clinging to her, scared of drifting away, even though the water is still around them.

“Tell me if it gets worse,” she says and holds her hands again, giving her a soft smile that still exposes too many sharp teeth, before dragging her along, deeper and deeper, until all around them is darkness from which sometimes a strange plant brushes up against her leg or a strangely shaped animal looks at them – nothing of it looks real, some of it might be creatures of myth.

Then, the palace comes into view. It is like a guiding star, light streaming out from it, fluorescent wildlife surrounding it. It sits at the edge of a cliff, nestled and curved into stone, extending far back, with glass spanning the whole side that is turned towards them. Curious fish come close to look before they leave, so many people inside, pearls, fabrics she has never seen before. It leans into the current like a living thing.

“They say Desju crafted it with magic so that everyone could see the beauty of the oceans,” Keiko explains, excited, and Indah begins to share it, “there are actually more of these constructions above and below our current level. In the beginning, everyone was free to come see it.” She pauses, voice sinking. “It must have been a wonderful time.”

“It is beautiful,” she says, and the woman smiles fondly before she pulls her along, closer to the deep and dark crawling with unknown, before she slips past a formation of rocks and inside an opening into the palace.

They pass through a tunnel of water, clear as day, collecting in a small pool from which they emerge, dry. Tentatively, she draws a breath of air – the same as on land.

Keiko stands, soft pink scarf wrapped around her head again, clothes, legs instead of scales.

“It’s a remainder from the time where we used to get visitors,” she explains, with that light in her eyes that warms her heart, “we don’t have any trouble living and breathing in water but others do.”

“Yeah,” she says only, clearing her throat after an embarrassing long moment of silence. “You love it here.”

She pauses, briefly. “I think I do,” she says eventually. “I do love history. And art. And the architecture here is very artistic.” She links their hands again, so effortlessly, and Indah smiles as she pulls her along; is this admiration, adoration? She does not know, she only knows that she cannot help smiling when she looks at her, that she cannot help the feelings of warmth and safety, that she cannot help the feeling that this is very much _right_.

As they pass through the palace, Keiko points to the high ceilings and arches, talks about the symmetry of it, how it all follows a very specific form of building to imitate the waves and the ocean, rambling about the history and development of it – deeper down, there are entire floors filled with water; Indah tales it all in with a never decreasing amount of awe.

They climb several sets of stairs and eventually hover in front of a particular building, adorned with cravings of all that is native to the sea. She knows it is a temple just from looking at it, a place of religious worship and praying. (There are several in the forest, too, if you know where to look, and she does – tangled in the roots of trees that once stood taller than the sky, carved into a mountain, on top of a hill, in a clearing, under the earth. They all have felt so terribly empty, so terribly forgotten, so terribly sad. This one feels alive and loved and it makes her want to cry.)

“Are you alright?” Keiko asks.

Indah nods and blinks, sight blurred. Something hums in her bones.

The woman steps forward, enters the temple, where water cascades down the walls. Magic tickles against her skin, ultimately deciding to let her pass.

The hall is empty, and she barely has enough time to look at it before Keiko pulls her into another hallway and into one of the rooms. The door locks behind them, leaving them with suddenly not very much space.

There is a bed – an actual bed – pushed against one corner and glass giving away to the dark of the sea just inches from it. Next to it, a canvas and paint, spotting a sketch beneath the first incomplete layer. Two shelves take up the other wall, one filled with books, the other with clothes.

“You like to draw?” she asks, because she really is not good at these things and because she does not know what else to say upon standing in the room of a woman she likes.

Keiko smiles and nods and lets go off her hand to dig through a stack of finished paintings – the sea, fish, corals, statues in the temple hall, other priestesses, a surprising number of naked women.

Awkwardly, she clears her throat, face flushing. The woman intervenes their fingers again and squeezes her hand, silence settling between them.

“I do not know a lot about drawing,” Indah admits, “but I do think they are wonderful.”

Keiko smiles and runs her thumb over the back of her hand encouragingly. “Thank you,” she says, pauses. “I’d like to paint you.”

“I … would not make a good inspiration,” she says, swallowing around the lump in her throat, the feeling of being _ugly_.

“Why not?” she questions and frowns. “I do think you’re very pretty.”

Indah opens her mouth to argue and then closes it again, slowly. Where does the need come from, to argue? To say that she is not, that she is less than what she thinks of her, despite the desire to accept it? The small of voice of doubt always finds its way into her head.

“I do,” she repeats softly and shuffles closer, hands cupping her face, and she feels ready to cry again.

“I feel … undeserving of it,” she admits with a gasp that sounds like a sob.

“You’re not,” she says, fingers settling against the base of her shaved skull, so very gently, like one would touch something precious. “No one is undeserving of someone caring for them.” She wipes away the tears that spill from her eyes.

“They do not stop to think that gods might be people, too,” she whispers and buries her head in the crook of her neck again, reveling in the feeling of being held.

Keiko draws her then, a sketch of coal on one of her canvases, such a simple thing – how she sits inches from her, on her bed, with that awkward smile that does not feel right and the flush on her face. Just rough outlines but it must be one of the most breathtaking things she has ever seen.

Indah looks at the water, dark and cold, and thinks of going back and the memory of this fading and shudders.

“Stay the night,” the priestess whispers, and she accepts without a second thought.

They sleep curled up next to each other that night, and she feels so much at ease that even her dreams turn to water gently lapping at her feet, a comforting lull.

She wakes up to the sea still dark, limbs tangled and holding onto the woman next to her, like they have always done this. It is nice, that thought.

Keiko wakes up and smiles and Indah watches her pray, watches her paint, knowing that they are both stalling because – she has to leave, eventually. This is not forever, she cannot stay here eternally, and it makes her sad.

She takes one last long look at it all as the woman guides her up to the shore, lingering, both of them not quite able to say their goodbyes.

“A moment?” Keiko asks and Indah nods, willing to give her much more than a moment; the woman leans up, soft lips pressing against her own, hands settling against her face. She freezes, for a second, before cautiously returning the kiss; she has never kissed anyone before and she does not know how it works and she has no idea what she is doing but she does know that she wants to kiss her, too.

They part, to breathe.

Keiko smiles at her shyly. “I can always visit you,” she says.

“Please,” Indah replies with a smile, warmth flooding her chest, and she is not scared of drowning in it. “I would love that.”

(She thinks the stories that caution about sirens and the sea have been born from people very much afraid of falling in love with pretty and kind women, from people who have no eye for beauty and no ear for kindness – Indah is not one of them.)


End file.
